


Unlimited Pass

by therudestflower



Series: The Commuter AU [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Baking, Cornbread, Domestic Fluff, Fanart, Gen, I have had to tag 3 fics that way thanks to my iteration of Isaac Lahey, M/M, Multi, Recreational Drug Use, The Commuter AU, The Stilinski-Lahey-Tate family, a classic in the teen wolf fandom, bc pot, it's sterek then the next most popular fic is the stiliniski-lahey-tate family with OC Beah, oneshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2019-09-07 18:53:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16859488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therudestflower/pseuds/therudestflower
Summary: Stilinski-Lahey-Tate Family oneshots from The Commuter AU verse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by the following AMAZING ART by Lilith Dagenbow. Check them out at [@art.probably_ on Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/art.probably_/)

   

Here’s how it goes.

 

He is good at bagels, he makes cakes people like, he has gotten into macarons, he sometimes made cookies and he never, ever makes brownies.

 

Isaac makes muffins. He makes amazing muffins. Muffins were the first thing he learned how to make on his own and he’d never gotten a ton better because his muffins started out fucking fantastic. Past all his self-esteem bullshit, he knew that was true.

 

But you could only make so many muffins.

 

The farmers market is the highlight of his week, every week. Aside from the cute stuff Beah does. At four she is old enough to patiently sit in his booth and play on her iPad and only sometimes sneak the yellow macarons out of the rainbow packages.

 

Evander, the improbably young director of the farmers market comes by his booth with some paperwork. Their farmers market is one of the smaller ones in Austin, but Isaac still doesn’t get how someone his age is in charge.

 

“You’re doing Giving June, yes?” he asks, not making eye contact with Isaac. Isaac takes the paperwork from him.

 

“You’re making it sound like that’s something I should know about,” Isaac says.

 

Evander looks at him, looking almost mournful. “Don’t you read my newsletters? I email them out on Tuesdays.”

 

Called out. Isaac super does not read those newsletters. “Our wifi has been down,” he lies.

 

“Isn’t your husband a professor?”

 

“Student,” Isaac corrects, “We’re broke.”

 

“Ohhhh,” Evander says, “Can you like, not afford to do Giving June? That’s okay. We’re just asking each booth to donate part of their proceeds to a charity. We give a $20 break on booth rent for June to anyone who does it.”

 

Isaac looks over the paperwork. It seems simple enough. “And we can pick any charity?” he asks.

 

“Are we poor?” Beah asks loudly.

 

“No,” Isaac says, “Yes, we’re doing it.” He gets to a list of approved charities—rude—but sees that RAICES is on it. “I’ll do RAICES.”

 

Evander squints, “Races?” he asks.

 

“Refugee and Immigrant Center for Education and Legal Services, dude,” Isaac says, secretly proud of himself for remembering all that. “They provide legal services to immigrants and refugees. Dude you live in Texas, this is a big deal.”

 

Evander looks sheepish and he feels bad because he for sure did not know about them except that Allison works with refugee populations and gave him a donation to RAICES for Christmas. “Um, so I’ll just, I don’t know, tell you what I’m giving?”

 

Evander gestures to the paperwork, “It’s all there. Just get an email out to me if you can, or talk to me next week since we still have another week before June. Good luck with your wifi!”

 

Beah waves to Evander and once he’s out of earshot she asks again loudly, “Are we poor?”

  
“We will never be poor,” Isaac assures her.

 

“But you’re bad at your job!”

 

Isaac laughs, “What?”

 

“Mason’s mommy is a better baker than you,” she informs him. She is picking at a cupcake, swinging her legs in front of the chair, unaware that she had just said the most hurtful thing she could. Baking wise, anyway.

 

“Why is that, Bay Bay?” Isaac asks evenly.

 

“Mason’s mommy makes cordbread,” she says, licking the icing off the cupcake. “You never ever make cordbread, and Mason’s mommy said it’s hard to make, so it’s too hard for you to make so you’re not good at it.”

 

“Cornbread,” Isaac corrects, “Mason’s mommy is a WASP from Connecticut, I doubt she makes any kind of impressive cornbread.” He is a would-be redneck from Indiana, so he didn’t exactly have a leg to stand on either. “Do you like cornbread?” he asks.

 

“Duh,” Beah says, “It’s good. I want to go to Mason’s house again so I can have it. She’s a good good baker.”

 

“Mason’s mom probably uses that dollar box at the grocery store,” Isaac says, “That’s not really baking Beah.”

 

“It’s more than you do!”

 

Isaac almost gestures to his table of painstakingly made baked goods, before he realized he would be arguing with a four-year-old.

 

“Fine,” he says instead, “I’ll make you cornbread.”

 

“Can you make the box kind that Mason’s mommy makes?”

 

He is so close to fighting with a four-year-old.

 

 

After farmers market, Isaac usually naps because he typically stayed up all the night before getting ready so he’s too tired for cornbread. He talks to Stiles about Giving June.

 

“For RAICES,” he explains, “I feel like we have to right?” Isaac asks. “I could mark the macarons or something as for charity. Or something.”

 

“Right,” Stiles inclines, “But like, um, we don’t have a ton of money? And the farmer’s market money is our gas and grocery money. So how are we going to figure that out?”

 

Fuck.

 

“I could make something new,” Isaac says.

 

“Do you have the oven time to do that?”

 

Isaac doesn’t have the oven time for that, but he can make it work.

 

 

Cornbread happens the next morning when he takes Beah with him to the grocery store to buy supplies.

 

In his defense, while cornbread is a bread and he does make bread, it is not a traditional baker _thing._ And he couldn’t know his veracity as a true and good baker would be thrown into question by his daughter over it.

 

He finds six different recipes that he’s going to try and hopefully come to a good one or make one up from them. He dumped ingredients into the cart, not looking at prices for once in his life because he had to prove his four-year-old daughter wrong.

 

Beah walks alongside the cart. They pass through the baking aisle—if it could be called that three-fourths filled with box mixes—Beah jumps up and down and takes a box mix for cornbread off the shelf. “This is what Mason’s mommy makes. Will you make this?”

 

“Beah,” Isaac says, bone-deep exhausted, “I’m going to make something better than what Mason’s mommy makes.”

 

“But I want you to make what Mason’s mommy made!”

 

Again, bone-deep exhausted, Isaac takes the box from her and throws it in the cart.

 

 

Isaac works four days a week at a grocery store bakery. It’s basic as hell and mind-numbing and he has to tell too many people where dairy section is. But it pays the bills, better than the farmers market does, so he goes in and works a regular six to two then picks Beah up from her home-daycare and takes her home.

 

And this week, he makes cornbread over and over.

 

He has to do it early in the week before it’s time to get ready for the farmers market, so Sunday through Wednesday he only uses the oven to make cornbread. He experiments with northern and southern styles, the first one he feels like is worth feeding his family, and not just sticking in the freezer, is a skillet bread that’s shiny on top. They have cornbread for dinner.

 

Beah spits it out and starts crying.

 

“It’s not like how Mason’s mommy made it!” she cries.

 

Isaac closes his eyes. He is so sick of the phrase “Mason’s mommy.” Mason’s mommy his is current main enemy, the person he most despises and must vanquish.

 

“Mason’s mommy—” he starts, rising with irritation but Stiles cuts him off.

 

“Cornbread, not war, Cowboy,” he says, “We’re talking about cornbread. I’ll make you some spaghetti, Beah,” Stiles offers, taking the plate of cornbread away from her.

 

“But this is the best one!” Isaac insists. “I made twelve batches! This is a combination of three top-rated recipes! Damn it!”

 

“Damn it!” Beah repeats.

 

“Fuck!”

 

“Fuck!” Beah repeats.

 

Isaac groans. “Beah. Please. Please. Please. Do not swear.”

 

“You’re doing it! You’re so bad at baking! You didn’t make the box kind.”

 

Isaac will not get bad in front of his kid. He will not get mad in front of his kid. He will not. He will sulkily stand up and preheat the oven and take the boxed cornbread off the shelf.

 

“Honey no, you hate box mixes,” Stiles says from where he’s filling up a pot with water.

 

“I hate my daughter hating what I made her, so we’re doing it like Mason’s mommy,” Isaac grouses.

 

Stiles, for his part, eats half the skillet while Beah plays in the living room and they wait for her cornbread—which took three ingredients and seven minutes to make—to be done. “How cheap was this to make?” he asks.

 

“Hella cheap,” Isaac says. “Cheaper if I’d bought in bulk.”

 

Stiles nods. “Maybe this is what you should sell for RAICES? Especially since it’s like, originally a Native American thing, come southern thing, come basically not your thing. So it’s not even yours really. It makes sense that you like, give away what you make from it.”

 

Isaac nods. “It is fun to make. I haven’t made anything new in a while, and it might be good to have something new at my booth.”

 

Stiles leans over and kisses him. “See? Not everything is such a big deal.”

 

Isaac agrees until the boxed cornbread was ready and he gives Beah a piece and her face lights up. “This is it!”

 

Stiles laughs nervously and spits out the boxed cornbread into the sink. “Gross, honey. Super gross. Yours is way better.”

 

Isaac tastes the boxed cornbread and is vindicated to find that Stiles is right, and he was right all along. Boxed stuff is always crap.

 

Beah disagrees. “You’re finally good at your job!” she yells.

 

 

 

He has to get more skillets, which is more an investment of time than money. He borrows Malia’s and drives around picking up skillets from friends from the farmers market with the promise they would get them back in July. He even borrows one from Gigi, Mason’s Mommy.

 

She smiles as she hands it to him. “I hear you have some competition,” she says.

 

“Oh?” Isaac asks.

 

“At drop off the other morning, Beah told me my cornbread is better than yours. I said, oh no honey, your daddy is a professional baker, but she insisted!”

 

Despite her words, Isaac could tell Gigi was kidding. He still had to smile tightly and remember Stiles’ words: Cornbread, not war. This was not a war. He was making cornbread to try to stop the war on immigrants, but making cornbread was not a war itself.

 

Still.

 

“Thanks for the skillet,” he says, “If you come to my booth Saturday, the proceeds for the cornbread will go to RAICES. But I’d give you some free.”

 

“Nonsense,” Gigi says, “I’ll pay full price! After all, I am more successful than you!” she laughs.

 

Isaac does too.

 

 

He makes cornbread. Lots of it.

 

When June comes Malia paints a sign to put on his booth that said “CORNBREAD PROCEEDS GO TO RAICES” in beautiful script and Stiles picks up pamphlets explaining their work from the local office. Stiles decides to come with on the first weekend of June, so it wasn’t just him and Beah for the first time in a while.

 

“I want to see all the action,” Stiles says as they pull up at 5 AM, “And I want to see you in your super cute new shirt.”

 

“My what?” Isaac asks, parking the car.

 

Stiles dives into his bag and produces a maroon sleeved baseball shirt with the words “Make Cornbread Not War” in complicated stacked script with an image of cornbread in a skillet just like his. It’s buttery soft, like Stiles knows he needs his shirts to be, and Isaac can’t help but laugh.

 

“Did you have this made?” he asks.

 

“Um, with what money would I get a custom shirt? I’ll have you know this was already on Etsy. You’re not the first person to go to war with another parent over cornbread _or_ to use cornbread to fight the war on immigrants. You’re not so special, Isaac Lahey.”

 

“I want a shirt!” Beah whines.

 

Stiles reaches in the back and shows her a much smaller version of the same shirt. In his other hand is another one that Isaac knows is for Stiles. “We’re going to look so awesome.

 

They get Beah changed in the grocery store across the street from the market and set up shop. Everyone who comes by remarks on their shirts and by ten AM the cornbread is almost all gone.

 

“I’m going to need to make more next week,” Isaac says, already planning how he can adjust the oven time, or maybe borrow Malia’s oven.

 

“You’re going to save the damn planet with this cornbread,” Stiles says.

 

There’s only one piece left and Beah comes out from where she was hiding under the booth and takes it.

 

“I thought you didn’t like my cornbread, Beah?” Isaac asks.

 

“Nu-uh,” Beah says, “It matches my shirt now, I love it so much.”

 

Isaac knows his priorities are skewed, but that’s so much better than all the money they just raised for RAICES. Which is good too.

 

“Make cornbread not war,” Stiles says again, “I’d say words to live by.”

 

“I’d say so,” Isaac agrees.

 

 


	2. Alike in Dignity

When Beah is two Malia moves out to her own apartment. 

 

They knew it would happen eventually. Malia and Beah had been sharing the small second bedroom, a feat that Isaac was more impressed by every month as Beah’s toys and clothes took over Malia’s bed and forced her to sleep in one corner or clean them up—which none of them ever managed to do. 

 

Stiles is devastated. 

 

Almost insultingly so.

 

“Of course there’s room for you,” he groaned when Malia made the announcement, “Come on. We can move Beah into our room. Or we could switch rooms. Or me and Isaac could move into the living room and Beah can have her own room. Or we could move!”

 

Malia gave a small smile, “You sound insane Stiles. I already signed the lease. Beah can stay with me half the time, and she has her own little alcove in the living room so she’ll be with her toys all the time which she loves.” 

 

“You signed the lease?” Isaac said, now involved in the conversation and upset. “You can’t make those kind of decisions without talking to us. We’re in this together.”

 

“I  _ did  _ talk to you,” Malia said, irritated, “I told you I was very serious about moving out. It’s not  _ my  _ fault you didn’t listen.” 

 

Stiles got up, presumably to make sure that Beah was asleep so that he could get a drink without breaking one of their agreed upon parenting rules. When he confirmed she was, he poured himself a glass of whiskey and one for Malia which she accepted with two hands. 

 

“Millions of families parent from two houses,” she said, “and by the way, we totally fucking love each other so it’s going to be amazing.”

 

“No,” Stiles said, “this was amazing. All of us living together.”

 

Malia shook her head, “I need to have some kind of life of my own. I love you guys, but as long as I’m here I felt like I was some extra part of your relationship. It’s not your fault. I miss paying my own rent, washing my own dishes. I think it will be good for Beah to see me taking care of myself. It took me a long time to get to this point. I think it will be good for me.” 

 

“But it’s because of us,” Isaac pointed out. 

 

Malia rolled her eyes, “You’re not even listening.  I’m doing it because I want to. I’m not saying no to you guys, I’m saying yes to me.”

 

They’d all been in too much therapy, because they all totally got that. 

 

Moving Malia into her apartment was a several week affair. There was no rush to get Malia’s stuff out of the house. Her bed went first because she decided it was important for her to send a message to Beah that was consistent, so she slept in the apartment every night.

 

Sometimes she brought Stiles to sleep with her, which Isaac was weirdly okay with. It didn’t send a mixed message to Beah about where Malia was, and that was their only goal.

 

Next went buying a toddler bed for Beah at Ikea to stick in the alcove in the living room, which Isaac had to admit was cute as hell, and he could see Beah loving even as she grew up. 

 

The rest came slowly, there were arguments about who owned the tea kettle, and whether the rug was  _ really  _ Malia’s because yes she paid for it but did she  _ love  _ it as much as Stiles did.

 

Malia loved her apartment. Isaac found out that she had never lived alone, there had been boyfriends, including Stiles, and Air Force bases and deployments and roommates and then living with them. She proudly showed off the mugs she picked out, and Beah happily ran around the mostly empty space yelling, “Two house! I have two house!” 

 

Because Beah was the best, most well adjusted kid in the country. 

 

Even with their help—which she accepted with her usual matter of fact expectation—it took a few months for the apartment to be full of the necessary living items and feel truly lived in. They decided on an every three day schedule for Beah, because when they tried going a full week without switching Beah kind of lost it. Malia was over all the time anyway, and they made dinner at her apartment, but Beah still cried for Mama once the novelty wore off of “just daddies.”

 

When that happened Isaac couldn’t help but question if they were doing the right thing. Not just living separately, but being Beah’s parents at all. Were they wrong to keep her from Malia, even for three days at a time?

 

When he voiced his concerns to Stiles, Stiles hesitated a beat then said, “Are you fucking nuts? Beah is obsessed with you. We’re rockstar parents and even if we  _ were  _ doing something wrong, which we. are. not. we would do more damage by removing ourselves from Beah’s lives than by staying in them.” 

 

“How are you always so sure about everything?” Isaac asked, whining a little.

 

“I super am not, I’m just sure about us.” 

  
  


Isaac keeps Beah during the days most of the time. He still works at a bakery part time, waking up at 3 and getting home at 10, giving him enough time to come home and take Beah before Stiles goes to teach his classes. Beah handled being handed off well most of the time, but today she screams, clinging to Stiles’s shirt. For a tiny person, she is strong, and Isaac felt like a monster as he pulls her off of Stiles. The force it took topples them back into the couch. Even though Isaac protects Beah’s head he is still terrified that he did some kind of damage, physical or emotional.

 

When the door closes Beah shoots up and screams, “I hate you!” and runs into her room.

 

He doesn’t even know where she’d heard that word. 

 

The day is long. Beah would calm down some, but then start crying again, calling out for Papa or Mama. Anyone but Daddy. He gives her everything she wants for lunch, even those terrible cookies that are full of sugar but she spits it out or ignores it, glaring at him like he was the worst person in the world. She finally settles with her blocks, sniffing with her back to him.

 

He is the worst person in the world. 

 

When Isaac knows that Malia was done at the shop, he texts her asking if they could do an early drop off. He expects Beah to be happy when he said they were going to Mama’s house, but she just flops on the floor and started crying again.

 

“My house!” she yells, “This is my house!”

 

It takes so long for her to calm him down, that Malia must have thought something was wrong because he hears a knock at the door.

 

Who the fuck was at their door?

 

The knock becomes more insistent, then Isaac heard the door open and Malia yells, “Hello! It’s Malia!”

 

Beah sat right up, tears disappeared. “Mama!” she says happily, like she hasn’t been throwing a tantrum for half an hour. She stands right up and runs over to Malia, talking happily as Malia picks her up. 

 

“I played with blocks. I had cookies. I played with blocks!” Beah says, like she had a wonderful day instead of sulking around like Isaac was a monster all day long. 

 

Malia looks over at Isaac, “Are you okay?” she whispers.

 

Isaac throws his hands up. He needs a blunt right now. Badly. But it is against their parenting rules to get high when Beah was in the house—one of the only good things about their new parenting arrangement—so he couldn’t dive for his stash in the top shelf of the closet. 

 

Malia hugs and kisses Beah then put her down, “Mama has to make dinner, now okay?”

 

“Okay,” Beah says agreeably, and runs back to her blocks. Malia inclines her head, and Isaac follows her to the kitchen. 

 

“You’re not actually going to make dinner, are you?” Isaac asks. He is exhausted, he doesn’t want to make dinner but he figured it would be a pizza night.

 

Malia helps herself to one of their pots and grabs a box of dried pasta. “You two persistently believe that I can’t boil pasta but I certainly can. You’re not the only person who can cook, Isaac Lahey.”

 

Isaac sat down at their table. “How was the shop?” he asks.

 

Malia looks back over her shoulder. “Dude. Come on. What’s happening here? You look terrible.”

 

“Nothing, I’m fine.”

 

Malia shakes her head. “You know, we’ve been friends for three years. I don’t know what it’s going to take for you to trust me.”

 

“I trust you,” Isaac insists. He totally does. Malia is one of the ten people. 

 

“Then tell me what’s going on.”

 

Isaac hesitates. If he tells Malia, what if he decides Isaac couldn’t be Beah’s father anymore? He is legally her father, but he was still most on the outside because of her relationship with Stiles. What if she decided that she had to contest his parental rights and then he couldn’t take care of Beah anymore and then—

 

“Whoa,” Malia says, “What’s happening. Do you need me to get you some pills or something? Whatever it is it’s fine, we can figure it out.”

 

Isaac thinks of the rolled blunts in his closet. 

 

“Beah hates me,” he finally admits. He haltingly describes the way Beah begged for anyone but him all afternoon, and refused to even look at him. Malia looks and listens to him seriously, then when he finishes, a laugh burst out of her. “It’s not funny,” he insists. 

 

“She had a tantrum!” Malia says, holding back laughter. “She has them all the time! She had one last week in front of you.”

 

“But she’s never not wanted me like this,” Isaac insist. He i annoyed that Malia is laughing like this—it isn’t funny it is awful and he hates it. 

 

“I swear to god, she did that to me on Saturday. All she wanted was daddies, she didn’t even let me hold her,” Malia says, seemingly unphased, “I think she’s just feeling us out with this new arrangement. I think it’s normal.”

 

“You think?” Isaac says doubtfully. 

 

“Well I haven’t talked to my therapist about it, but I’m pretty sure. It makes sense, right? She’s getting used to some of us not being around some of the time, so she’s test it out, seeing what it will take to get us. For example, throwing a tantrum got you to bring me here early.”

 

“We were supposed to go to you,” Isaac corrects dimly, “And she said she didn’t want to go.”

 

Malia shrugs, “My place is the tops, even if she doesn’t want to come she’ll be okay once we get there.”

 

“Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?”

 

Malia stops messing with the pasta and turned around, “Living on my own is good for me. I feel strong, independent. Like myself. Me being happy and strong is good for Beah. And I’m sure living on your own has been good for you and Stiles, and that’s good for Beah too. We were happy together, but sometimes a little space is good.”

 

Isaac belatedly realizes that by questioning whether they were doing the right thing, he is questioning Malia’s choices which she never suffered. He can’t help putting his head down on the table. 

 

Having your kid hate you, even if it was normal, was fucking exhausting.  

 

He feels something tugging on his shirt hem and sits up. Beah is standing next to his chair, tugging insistently. 

 

“What is it Bay Bay?” he asks. 

 

“Come,” she says, pulling on his shirt. Isaac gets up. What was next? He offers his hand, and is surprised when she takes it and pulls him into the living room. 

 

Her blocks re set up in two towers, both precariously tall, taller than Beah herself. Beah’s doll is sitting underneath one of the towers, along with the fire truck that Beah said was Mama, and the red and green cars that Beah thought were Stiles and Isaac’s cars.

 

“Our house!” she says proudly.

 

Isaac looks at the towers, dumbfounded. He supposed she’d been working on them all day, but he hadn’t thought that they really meant anything. Beah picks up her doll and walks it from one tower to another and back, saying “Bye Daddy! Going to Mama now!” She turns back to him, not smiling but not glaring at him anymore. “Our house,” she says definitively. 

 

“Yes,” Isaac manages to say, “yes, that’s our house. Is that okay with you?”

 

“Our house,” Beah repeats. “I go to Mama’s house now?”

 

“Can we have dinner here first?” Isaac asks. 

 

Beah considers that for a minute then nodded. “Mama’s house at night?” she asks.

 

“Mama’s house at night,” Isaac agrees.

 

This was a sign right? That she understood what the situation was, and that they all loved each other and were a family even in two houses. If he called Chris now—something he’d been wanting to do all day but put off out of fear that it would confirm he was fucking up—Chris would totally say it was a good sign. 

 

Beah nods and fell on him—her way of giving a hug. Isaac catches her and wraps his arms around her, hugging tightly. Beah hugs him back. 

 

“Pizza?” she asks. 

 

Oh god, would she have another tantrum?

 

“Pasta,” Isaac says.

 

Beah nods sagely, “Okay, I will eat it.”

 

Isaac laughs. “Thank you Beah.” He gives her a squeeze and lets go. “Do you want to show Mama your house?

 

“She’s seen it,” Malia says easily, moving her doll towards the fire truck’s tower. “She likes it so much.”

 

“I know she does,” Isaac say. “Listen, Papa is going to be home soon, should we go outside and play with sidewalk chalk so we see him when he comes?” He know it is technically Malia’s time, but she isn’t strict about it and he wants to have some good time with Beah before she left for three days. 

 

Beah claps, “Yes yes! I want the green ones!”

 

“You can have the green ones,” Isaac said. He picks her up and went into the kitchen to let Malia know what they were doing. Malia wave them away, she was intensely focused on not over boiling the pasta. They sit on the driveway and draw green castles until Stiles’s red car pulls up and parks on the curb, and Isaac has to keep her from running towards the moving car. Stiles gets out of the car. He is wearing his sunglasses and one of his sharp teaching shirts, and with his hair just this side of windswept he looks like a movie star. He grins when he sees them. 

 

“Look, it’s two of my favorite people!” he says.

 

“Don’t forget Mama!” Beah says, hurrying over the Stiles now that Isaac has let her go. 

 

He stoops down and hugs her. “Of course not, Mama is my favorite too,” Stiles says, smiling at her. “Is Mama here?” he asks addressing the question at Isaac, cocking his head towards Malia’s bicycle on the porch.

 

Isaac nods and quietly explaines, half spelling half talking, what happened trying to keep Beah from knowing that he was talking about her. Stiles takes it well, and doesn’t freak the fuck out about Isaac not taking good care of Beah or breaking the schedule. He just takes them inside and eats pasta with Malia.

 

When it comes time to leave, Beah happily gathers her toothbrush and tries to take Isaac’s toothbrush too. He lets her, he could buy another toothbrush. She leaves without a fight, waving at them with his toothbrush in hand. 

 

Once she leaves he finds his best blunt and lights up in the bathroom.

 

Stiles lingers in the doorway of the bathroom, watching him, “You good?” 

 

“Beah said she hated me today,” he says.

 

Stiles wasn’t even a little phased. He waves the word away. Or maybe it was smoke. “She said she hated me yesterday when you were at the bakery.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really.”

 

“That makes me really happy,” Isaac admits. 

 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Stiles says. “She’s not having worse tantrums than any other two year old. She’s healthy, she’s happy, she’s wise. She’s doing great.” 

 

“Are you sure?” Isaac asks, taking care to keep his blunt smoking away from Stiles. 

 

“I’m super sure,” Stiles promises, “We’re doing a good job.” 

 

He looks up at Stiles, “I’m trying.”

 

“Dude, that’s basically all of it.”

 

He takes a hit and sighs, relaxing back against the bathtub. “I think I’m starting to figure that out.”

 


End file.
